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My chest aches, a tight, pulsing rope pulling tighter and tighter with every mile. It’s our matebond stretching, burning, vibrating with her fear like a live wire against my ribs.

“Fuck.”

I can barely breathe. My pulse is a war drum in my ears.

Hold on, Mo Chroí. I’m coming.

“Go faster.” I growl, low and feral.

Zeke doesn’t even flinch. He just floors it, the tires shrieking as we push past seventy. Then eighty. And ninety.

“You sure that’s where she is?” he asks, eyes flicking over.

I nod once, curt and sharp.

“Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Because after that bar fight a couple of weeks back—after I rearranged Tim the Asshole’s dental structure—I’d followed my instincts and done some digging.

Tracked property transfers, followed scent trails, mapped their comings and goings like a man obsessed.

Turns out the Orchard Mill Ranch changed hands about a month ago.

Used to belong to a retired cattleman named Tyson Peaks-Mill.

Good guy.

Human.

Liked cigars and college football reruns.

But he sold it off to a group of interested investors.

No names listed, just a shell company, and some encrypted contracts.

But the scent markers left behind didn’t lie.

Asshole Tim and his merry band of feral dickheads? They’re Shifters.

I was right about that.

Wrong about the subspecies.

I’d guessed Cougar. Maybe Jaguar.

Something big. Dangerous.

Something worthy of fear.

I gave them too much credit.

These motherfuckers?

They’re Servals.

Goddamn oversized house cats.

And yet—they’re dangerous in their own way.